


perfect contrition

by 8TimesTheCharm



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Ophilia is too fantasy catholic to realise wtf is going on, Polyamory, THE REAL FUN BEGINS IN CH3, Therion the unwitting cheerleader in chap2, awash with religious metaphors soz, don't let the graphic violence tag fool you it's honestly for one thing in ch1, it's H'aanrose mostly first chapter, prim's a good guide for that, rating for safety, the boys are there and talk a bit, the rest is fairly explicit intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8TimesTheCharm/pseuds/8TimesTheCharm
Summary: Ophilia is a pious young woman who holds the Flamebringer close to her heart, with all the dogmatic baggage that can entail from having near-fanatical devotion to one's orders. This becomes a problem when she notices more things about not just one but two of her companions, who also happen to seem quite interested in each other. Something's got to give; her own desires versus the expectations of Aelfric's own ordained.
Relationships: Ophilia Clement/H'aanit, Primrose Azelhart/H'aanit, Primrose Azelhart/Ophilia Clement, Primrose Azelhart/Ophilia Clement/H'aanit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	1. covetous

**Author's Note:**

> well all that catholic guilt that is almost genetic for where i'm from has to go somewhere. sorry ophilia!!!!

Ophilia had noticed many things about the huntress when she joined the diverse little handful of wanderers, and just so the dancer that was the addition after her.

H’aanit had gently goaded the mishmash of scholar, warrior and thief to help the poor girl in her plight to spare Lianna of her pilgrimage for their father’s sake, and was more than happy to lend her eagle-eye and swift arrows to guarantee the Flame being entrusted to her. A native of remote S’warkii who had set out to find the man who raised her, and had the compassion and generosity of the most pious servants of the church; she was someone Ophilia could not pretend she had no interest in other than respectful acquaintance.

Not only a dextrous and accurate archer, she held her own with a sword or a spear and exhibited defiant strength; even so, she was tender in dressing wounds and culinarily gifted as any talented chef, and embodied a wonderful dichotomy of possessing both wild energy and the safety of the hearth alike. It wasn’t long until Ophilia’s eyes began to drink in more than her brain did think of her companion, and fill her heart with a worrying longing that verged on outright desire—something she never did countenance even if the Flame let its celebrants exercise non-celibacy, it was not fond of unbridled, unrestrained lust.

It was shyness that stayed any overtly complimentary words, and any confession of the sort was even further from her lips. Ophilia was content enough to admire H’aanit from afar, and gush over her many different facets internally—the idea of sharing it with any of the others was beyond mortifying, none of the men being a viable enough candidate and _wholly_ unsuitable for listening to any of the desires that Ophilia wished towards the huntress. And so, it remained shelved, as their path went from Flamesgrace to Sunshade.

Under the burning of Sunshade’s glare when they heard Primrose’s plea, Olberic barely had time to voice his own disgust when both H’aanit and Ophilia immediately volunteered their group to help _well ahead_ of his otherwise instant roars of seeking justice. When Helgenish made his rotten appearance and attempted to stab the dancer in the back, H’aanit’s draw of her bow gave Primrose an aural heads up, when her arrow struck true into Helgenish’s dagger hand, and let her quickly slit his throat to end this grim chapter of her life. How Ophilia looked him in the eyes, saw the choking, gurgling attempts to wave her over for hope of healing, and watched her turn away any last gasp of hope in the church’s willingness to look the other way. Aelfric would not be pleased that Ophilia gave to willing grievous violence, and less so that she dared to toy with the fleeting dream of solace from a man on the verge of dying, and snatched it away as the last of his living embers were snuffed out.

Despite the oath sworn in Aelfric’s name, to serve the Flame and bring warmth and security to others with its light, Ophilia would break it over and over again if it could give Primrose that relief from the tribulations she had suffered. The lost daughter of House Azelhart possessed a tale deeply upsetting and profusely sympathetic, and it affected Ophilia in ways she was nowhere near ready to confront. When told of Lord Geoffrey’s murder, how his moving defiance in the face of malevolence was thanked by its servants’ knives, it moved the Flamebearer to her frozen bones; she could only focus on how she would have went down this dark path much the same way, finding herself willing to do similar for her father were he in Geoffrey’s position, the caring Archbishop who took her in and cared for her as his own Lianna, how her urges were the inverse of how Aelfric thought and how it spoke more to dreaded Galdera’s wishes. If it meant that a shine would light up her hazel eyes, and bring her full lips into a dimpled smile, Ophilia would care little for the consequences, and this decisive willingness to break her own tenets tore at her conscience, it ate at her holy soul and it gnawed at her doubt that she **_dared_** feel this way.

What was she supposed to do with these new confounding feelings? She was coiled up inside her own mind, deep in thought as they wandered into Clearbrook and met the affable Alfyn, adding him to their ranks. How was she supposed to juggle not merely one overwhelming sense of physical lust that was wildly inappropriate in itself for the archaically spoken H’aanit, but also the chilling realisation that her holy orders sworn and the dedication she had to Aelfric amounted to absolutely _nothing_ , when placed beside the will to sink into the gutters and resort to mindless brutality if it meant Primrose would shed the world’s woes from her shoulders? It was one thing to long for another, but to lust over two was a greed that did not sit well.

Tressa’s addition was some mild reprieve, allowing Ophilia to divert her attentions away from the guilt that wanted to submerge her utterly in its abyssal depths, for daring to not merely flirt with the possibility of ignoring them but contemplating outright abandonment, on grounds of sheer torrid lust. The pirates were overcome, Tressa decided to travel with the seven, and onward Ophilia went with a new façade created for the express purpose of hiding her feelings. It was easier than confronting the terror of this sin being more than Galdera’s pushing awry inklings into her mind, and rather her own weakness, her own evils that began to fight what she had worked so hard for.

As Cyrus discovered that horrifying sacrificial cell beneath Quarrycrest, and while Alfyn rooted out the criminal apothecary poisoning the town of Goldshore and charging extortionate prices for the so-called ‘cure’, Ophilia was able to dedicate her time and focus away from dwelling on unbecoming thoughts and dreams, pouring herself into hyperattentive healing and soothing those who needed reassurance. She remained plenty amiable and courteous to H’aanit and Primrose alike in the lulls between the excitement that every town visited would yield in the form of adventure, able to throttle the flowing wanton lasciviousness into a fluttery heartful crush in a bid to regain that inner holiness, one that she felt loathe to admit she must’ve lost in Aelfric’s eyes.

For a while, the Flamebearer thought she was in the clear and able to focus on her new pilgrimage without fear of the great guilt clawing at her sense of sacramental morals, happy to set aside the long conversation with her inner self about the two different totems of longing pulling her apart at glacial pace. Chatting to the two culprits in particular was perfectly safe and civilised in a group setting, which it oft was when they came to taverns to rest their weary feet. It was all well and good, until their travel took them to Stonegard, and H’aanit discovered what became of her mentor.

The huntress had been one who did not prattle on like Cyrus, but when she spoke, she was not of few words, simply very well-considered ones. The discovery of Z’aanta in his pained petrification, however, numbed her into contemplative brooding and turned her relatively sociable inclination into something closer to a hermit. While Tressa and Alfyn tried to offer cheer-tinged reassurances that they’d get him back before long, Olberic and Therion simply said they would help too, and Cyrus’ reasonable matter of fact knowledge that Z’aanta was merely suspended in that moment in time and wasn’t truthfully suffering anything, Ophilia made herself available should the huntress need to air out anything that was getting to her.

* * *

Making their way out of Stonegard, aiming to go north to Stillsnow and stop in Rippletide, H’aanit took the lead insofar as much as Therion would let her—aiming to scope out any hiding creatures or would-be bandits from vantage points that only he could reach. Olberic brought up the rear of the group, keeping all of them within his steely view, Alfyn chatting to Primrose about some of the plants that grew along the North Stonegard pass and their uses, Tressa flipped through pages of an intriguing book that Cyrus had handed her, and Ophilia swallowed her anxiety and fluttered ahead to keep up with H’aanit.

The huntress’ grey-green eyes were clouded over, as if she was in a trance. Linde glanced up to see the cleric delicately wave back and gave her a greeting trill, moving back around her human companion to allow Ophilia closer. H’aanit didn’t really notice even still, until Ophilia’s featherlight hand touched her built bicep.

“Hmm? Ah, to whiche do I owest the pleasure of thine company?”

“Aha, well,” the Flamebearer smiled nervously “I just wanted to… to let you know that if you need to get anything out of your system, I’m here to listen.”

H’aanit said nothing, matching the hopeful look in the cleric’s eyes with a stare that betrayed no emotion but seemed to probe beyond the kind gesture. Ophilia shivered; the huntress’ eyes looked hungry for something that she was still struggling with in private. And then, the S’warkii native relented, smirking wryly and looking back on the road once more “Thou art kind to offeren thine blessed ear to a moody hunter as myself. I admit to being possessed by greate frustration. The hunt appeareth daunting but if my master sayeth Susanna will help, then helpst she will.”

“And we’re here for you too! We all are,” the healer pressed “If you’re frustrated though, perhaps we can figure out a way to wrestle it out of you?”

“Mine affliction of frustration is not a simple discussion away from beinge cured,” H’aanit laughed, a low and dry chuckle that made something flutter in Ophilia, with a very telling glance of that same potency washing over her “It requireth a more… physical involvement that I wouldst not seek from a sister of Aelfric’s church.”

The Flamebearer stopped in her tracks, glowing red as she realised what H’aanit had essentially said to her face, long enough for the others to start passing by. Primrose took one look and giggled, wiggling her eyebrows knowingly “Did the huntress snatch the breath out of your lungs? Or did Linde take your tongue?”

“Ah… Prim--!”

The daughter of House Azelhart folded her arms “Really though, what did she say that has you as such?”

“Um… she said she was… frustrated,” Ophilia illustrated her point with a weak wave of her arm, unable to look the stunningly beautiful travelling companion of hers in the eye on any good day of the week, never mind immediately after being confronted with the fact H’aanit was also expressing heavy lust towards her. The snort told her that the dancer grasped the situation immediately, patting the flustered sister on the shoulder.

“Not to worry, I’ll take it from here; besides, _I_ have business in Stillsnow as well.”

Ophilia didn’t answer, letting Primrose hurry ahead to meet H’aanit’s pace, and only acquiesced to moving again when Olberic’s large hand gently pushed her to walk ahead of him.

The implication of Primrose’s husky words hung in the air around Ophilia, never quite sinking in, the entire way up to Rippletide. Tressa went to her parents’ house to stay the night, while the rest scattered across what inn rooms were available at the tavern. Alfyn elected to drag Olberic and Cyrus to the bar for some merriment as was his wont, while Therion watched and listened for any stray hints of easy pilfering and ignored the genial apothecary’s giddy overtures for a raucous singsong. Before the professor was successfully pulled to the tavernkeeper’s counter, Ophilia managed to eke out the whereabouts of H’aanit from him, pointing out the rooms that they had been allocated earlier in the day.

“Give her a wide berth, perhaps, if only because she seems more so taciturn than usual.”

 _She’s not exactly like that anyway_ , Ophilia wanted to protest, but acquiesced and retreated to her own room for a little meditation to try to foist out these lurid thoughts that had been growing exponentially in the last week plus. Wearily patting down her travelling satchel for wherever she might’ve placed the simple inn key for her room as she ascended the steps out of the thick din of chatter, laughter and clinking glasses, she noticed Primrose walking down the hall much further than where Ophilia vaguely recalled her room was located. She pressed on and a few steps later was outside of her room, fiddling with the key and the block upon which the room number was carved, until…

…until she heard Primrose knock gently and call “H’aanit? Are you in there?”

The Flamebearer stopped, just as the key turned and the door curled inwards, and hastily put on a front that she was still fumbling with her satchel, craning her ears towards the hushed conversation that Primrose seemed to be having in the doorway of the huntress’ own inn room. Ophilia slipped in, pressing herself to the side of the wall and could only hear murmurings with nothing clear enough for comprehension, but the tone seemed relaxed if distracting—the combination of Primrose and H’aanit’s low voices tingled in her ear and her needy heart skipped a beat or two.

Becoming braver in her eavesdropping—and begging forgiveness not just from Aelfric but indeed his 11 deific peers—Ophilia steadily slipped back out to the now quiet hallway, noticing Primrose no longer stood in it, and drew ever so slowly towards H’aanit’s room. She could discern that same low murmuring as before, but there was an unmistakeable playfulness that had woven its way through their voices, filtering out of the door still left ajar. Boldly, but with as much restraint and care that she could muster, Ophilia peeked around to see Primrose and H’aanit standing entirely too close for a simple, casual conversation.

The dancer’s back was facing her, hidden behind that cascade of warm, dark chestnut locks unbound for a change that ended just above her wide hips, leaving _very_ little for Ophilia to think about. H’aanit was facing the direction of the door, and while that made the cleric flinch and recoil behind the object more, she quickly realised that the huntress’ eyes didn’t flicker up to confirm what was lurking in her periphery, too focused on Primrose standing—standing _against_ her. How could anyone even think of caring more beyond perhaps the most beautiful woman in Orsterra was beyond Ophilia, so to see H’aanit just as susceptible was faint reassurance. The sensation of relief didn’t last long, not when a potent, visceral mixture of the cold heat of jealousy suddenly erupted from her gut upwards, her heartbeat hurt with a stinging feeling tantamount to disappointment all with a twisted undercurrent of wanting more, when she saw the huntress grab Primrose into her arms and kiss her like a war-torn soldier would his wife hitherto missed for years. Fear of discovery stilled her shocked gasp, though truth be told, she might’ve not been heard anyway over the loud and hurried disrobing H’aanit engaged in.

Hypnotised by the way the faint light illuminated the twain from behind and added wonderful contours to the muscles moving under H’aanit’s skin, Ophilia stared on, rooted to the spot in self-scandalised awe. Her throat went dry watching Primrose wriggle free of the meagre material that constituted the upper half of a dancer’s typical garb, feeling light-headed with the hard blush surging to her cheeks that followed seeing her bare breasts for a fleeting second until the huntress’ hands were all over them.

The poor Flamebearer could not for the life of her figure out who she was more jealous of, or who she wanted to be in place of more. The option of ‘both’ did surface briefly, but the tidal wave of sacrilegious shame that towered over that same suggestion banished it to the depths of that abyssal guilt again.

As Primrose laughed lowly and pushed H’aanit onto the bed, shortly pouncing atop of her, Ophilia’s heart slammed in her chest with a worryingly increasing rate, loud in her skull enough that she feared it would carry over the sounds of soft sighing and groaning. Then she noticed Primrose’s generous hips grind against the pinned S’warkii hunter and felt a blazing heat, one that was most certainly _not_ of Aelfric’s fiery gift, roar into life in the crux of her legs still refusing to move. A fur trimmed tunic was thrown to the floor with the belt that held it closed, and Ophilia had to muffle herself for fear of yelping at the sudden surge of H’aanit from beneath the noble dancer, grabbing Primrose and throwing her to the bed, with the near-immediate divesting of the last vestiges of red silken decency from her. Only when H’aanit dove face-first between Primrose’s legs did Ophilia beat a hurried retreat, if only for how she simply couldn’t look at the lascivious expression and hear that absolutely lurid moan at the same time, for fear of what it would do to her purity of spirit.

She closed the door behind her as gently as she could, though little could probably alert the two rutting like beasts on the other side of it, making hastily for her room.

Ophilia leaned against the door of her own room after she accidentally ended up slamming it a little harder than she’d have liked, trying to use breathing exercises to coax her out of control heartbeat into something more restful. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—she stumbled to her bag forgotten on the floor and pulled out the simple gown she wore to bed, tossing it atop where she would be hopefully resting her head and not having her treacherous mind replay anything that she just witnessed as she tried to sleep. A pitcher of water and a full glass beside it was a welcome sight, and after gulping the glass down, the cleric wasted no time in dropping to her knees and clasping her hands in prayer.

“Lord Aelfric, Flamebringer and illuminator of Orsterra, I beseech you—please have mercy on me, and forgive this lost servant. Let Bifelgan’s scales show my heart heavy with shame, let Draefendi carve it open and show that Galdera has not taken root; I seek to fix this transgression against my orders of servitude to you.”

She repeated it 12 times, and after the twelfth invocation, Ophilia asked the remainder of the pantheon to vouch for her on account of her sheer will to make up for this terrible sin. If there was a sign from on high on what to do, what she must do to amend for lusting, for voyeurism, for greed—she would do it. If the Flamebearer had to self-flagellate herself from Northreach to Marsalim, Orewell to Grandport in full view of the citizenry, to jeers and shouts alike, she would! It was her responsibility, her error to mend, and she would not let it stain the church, she would not let it near Aelfric’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> faceplants into another fandom several years late with a fic set to like a prayer by madonna basically
> 
> 'Light and Darkness' by dietcokeenthusiast gave me the spark of the idea that i then distilled into pure unfiltered catholic shame and guilt, booted through an orsterra google translate for setting-appropriate names and such. the church in the game isn't even this bad i just got a little mega carried away oops


	2. confession

Ophilia simmered in her internal struggle for some weeks after this eavesdropping incident. She withdrew from indiscriminate casual chatter; initially she had simply become a mite more reserved but the Flamebearer greatly doubled down on the reticence, once she had beheld Stillsnow and its grimy underbelly she had never known existed, hovering on the periphery of her comfortable sacred little bubble in Flamesgrace. Something had changed drastically within her soul’s landscape, akin to the gradual rumbling of tectonic plates preceding a world-shaping earthquake within her, but the vexed cleric would not for the time being grant it that satisfaction of acknowledgement. And yet, the first seed of doubt had been planted about her dedication to Aelfric, seeing how her peers and superiors alike indulged in something significantly less pious than their esteemed positions demanded of them. Even so, her first instinct was not to loosen the restrictions she insisted on herself, but instead to strive to succeed where they failed, whilst trying not to think about how _willingly_ they did so.

It served her well to remain as focused as possible when Saintsbridge loomed, reigniting the Flame of Aelfric that sat flickering and faltering in the church, reconciling two young friends, and praying in her private moments for aid or respite from her tumultuous feelings, especially when she noticed H’aanit and Primrose beginning to gravitate around one another that more closely. Ophilia still did not have an answer for herself as to whether she was actually genuinely jealous of one or both of them, or the envy stemmed from wishing to be right in the torrid centre of such salacious intermingling when they all turned in for the night. Her breath hitched noticing their fingers touch and briefly link on the road from Victor’s Hollow to Goldshore, and a dour shred of castigation at herself for ever having the _temerity_ to feel these feelings for _both_ H’aanit and Primrose caught aflame as if the embers themselves heard and blossomed into an inferno of shame.

While Alfyn made the rounds to check in on those he had helped in the wake of the unethical apothecary, Ophilia was preparing for the next part of the Kindling when the local bishop’s daughter was spirited away, by what seemed ostensible cultists wishing to take away Aelfric’s own embers. With a righteousness that went above and beyond the even and careful measures of justice that she had tended to mete out, the Flamebearer poured all her internal frustration, emotion and abject guilt at it all into an intense maelstrom of physical and magical offense that did take her companions by not insignificant surprise. Cyrus noted more to the others that the poison one such cultist imbibed was less a last resort, and more of a way out of succumbing to the wounds the cleric inflicted. Olberic plainly added he was happy he had shielded Lysa from the sight, though not too thankful he had to see their normally empathetic, overly generous and gentle companion give into a nascent wrath unbeknownst to them all. Alfyn expressed his sorrows, wishing Ophilia would let him listen; Tressa quietly found some extra sweets in her supplies to give to Lysa, as a meagre comfort for her trials; Therion simply looked at what he knew was the cause of this, as Primrose and H’aanit returned the nonchalant glance with varying degrees of irritation at him and worry over the troubled Flamebearer respectively.

Ophilia decided that once she made her pilgrimage and kindled the fires in Goldshore and back in Flamesgrace, she would have to do a **great** deal of penance for how her journey _must_ have tarnished Aelfric in some form. The details would have to be ironed out later; she needed to be clear of her new friends—especially the two that bewildered and baffled her in ways she had no means of comprehending alone— and isolate herself to prove she was worth forgiving, _to prove she would do better_.

A fine and noble thought, had Lianna not turned up, drugged her and taken the sacred embers from her unresponsive body; perhaps this was the divine intervention Aelfric sent for her punishment, to have usurped Lianna’s journey out of naïve expectation that she could be with their father, and then to fall victim to her covetous desires on that same journey must have been too much for the Flamebringer above to bear on His immortal name. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the dulling effect wore off as Alfyn did his level best to look after her, and once it ebbed from her lips and mouth she let out an abject shriek of anguish and turmoil, and sobbed heavily in her shaking hands. The howl was more than enough for the poor apothecary to have the utter hell scared out of him, and he scrambled to calm her out of the panic attack she immediately fell into once unnumbed, with enough cacophony raised that the others heard her peal of distress.

The rest of the party had uncomfortably tried passing the time in the tavern, and once the sound reverberated through their bones and drove the very chill of the Frostlands into their blood, they looked at each other for something to do—no matter how hastily formed. Tressa covered her ears and winced, Olberic did not visibly move but for his expression falling and his eyes closing, Cyrus stood as if to try help Alfyn if not for H’aanit strong-arming him right back into the seat of his chair with a non-too-subtle hint that his presence would make her panic more violent. Therion looked at Primrose, expression barely readable when only his eye peered over the cowl “I know we’re going to Noblecourt to see off the last of your crows, but spare a minute to figure out what’s wrong with her?”

The dancer held her tongue a moment, too ready to snap back that she and indeed H’aanit knew exactly what was the problem, but it wasn’t something easily broken by an outside intervention; she knew what it was like to have a world that she thought everything made sense in suddenly shatter around her, and when there’s emotions in the mix… to say it would be exacerbating the core issue would be a phenomenal understatement. Still, to have Therion of all people nudge her to find a good way to try relating to the cleric was a pleasant surprise. Instead of a bitter retort, she offered a sad smile and a nod “I know what it’s like to have everything you knew pulled out from beneath you. I’ll talk to her, but I would like to at least get to Noblecourt first. Tressa—sorry, I know I’ll owe you for this—can you… can you get her out of the room? I’ve a feeling she wouldn’t want to see me first thing after recovering.”

Tressa’s blank expression didn’t match the hearty gusto of her double thumbs-up, as she scooted the chair back and sighed wearily towards the staircase.

Ophilia made her appearance eventually, and amid some painfully awkward small talk the group gathered their items and made for Stonegard as the stop-over: Cyrus wanted to investigate something of his headmaster’s and had successfully interjected his mission to Primrose’s annoyance, but she had little room for argument when Noblecourt was an _awfully_ long way away from Goldshore. In any case, she needed to see if the Flamebearer was willing to talk, and by the time the West Goldshore Coast had turned into the Moonstruck Coast, the Azelhart heiress had started to flag behind in order to let Ophilia catch up to her—only to see that Ophilia had beelined to her with an unusual fire in her haunted looking tea-coloured eyes and a tightened jaw.

“Hey, are you--?”

“I would really like to speak to you privately once we’re in an inn, if you have the time,” Ophilia requested through bared, grit teeth, like she was visibly restraining herself from an outburst—of what variety, Primrose could only hypothesise. All she could muster was a startled nod, watching the cleric all but stomp on ahead of her.

* * *

While Cyrus, Tressa, Olberic and Alfyn made their preparations for the scholar’s attempts to probe through Yvon’s old home, Therion kept a wide berth of the trio of women left behind, opting to serve as a messenger should Cyrus’ party have a lone survivor run to the tavern begging for back-up. The particular split in the party was partly Primrose’s request, just as much as it was Cyrus’, allowing for a few birds to be hit with this clunky and unwieldy stone of a solution. The thief didn’t fancy the thought of getting involved, even by simple proximity of physical distance, having the best overall knowledge that something was up among the three of them, and it was absolutely none of his business—not that it’d be his business to _begin_ with, but excruciatingly so now he was aware it was something to do with high emotions one was having about what the other two were doing betwixt sheets. He couldn’t mask his mild astonishment very well when H’aanit made an appearance and bought him a drink silently.

“Thought you’d be up there trying to talk to the poor martyr herself.”

The huntress glared at him.

“Where’s Linde?”

“Keeping an eye on the twain, shouldst any unscrupulous sort daren disturb their discussion.”

“Noble.”

“I shall not suffer quips; Linde wouldst descend and alert me thus if anything wereth to occur.”

“I see, but you didn’t answer me the first time; why aren’t you up there talking to her?” Therion pushed, furrowing his brow slightly as he moved his cowl and shot a quick thank-you to the tavernkeeper for his ale.

“Primrose spoketh with me prior and insisted she had it in hand with commonality of circumstance. And even if that wereth not the case, mine manner of speech does not maketh emotional talk easy— _nay_ —it tenden to worsen things.”

She sighed, leaning over her loosely folded, powerful arms. Therion eyed her from his periphery as he supped at his drink and sensing a resignation that wasn’t very becoming of the stoic woman, said something neither of them were expecting him to “You’re worrying too much. I have a feeling that things will work out fine.”

H’aanit blinked owlishly at him, before chuckling lowly “Thou art rarely such an optimist about thine own struggles, never mindeth that of the Flamebearer on a pilgrimage that occurreth only once every twenty years.”

“Yeah, well, there’s been a lot of weird events happening to each of us,” he grumbled into his flagon, subtly buying her something stronger in a bid to keep the huntress from winding him up any further.

* * *

Up in Ophilia’s room, the Frostlands native paced anxiously in circles, as she tried to stifle the awful nauseating spike of anxiety in her body awaiting Primrose’s presence from the other side of the upper inn rooms they were allocated. Part of it was fear about how the dancer would react—for good or ill—but at very least she would know for definite how she felt there and then. This was nothing like the undiluted terror about how Aelfric and His fellow gods would regarding the fate of her soul in acknowledging this sin aloud but _what_ on this good green Orsterra was she supposed to **_do_** with it? Could this not be _at least_ perceived as a method of purging it from herself by telling at least one object of her shameful longing? The poor cleric could barely countenance how Primrose would be, and H’aanit was unknown territory she was not about to broach until _this_ particular meeting was through.

Her deep thought was shattered with a yelp by firm knocking on the door and that low melodic voice “Ophilia? I’m here; can I come in?”

Once the Flamebearer managed to get her heart down out of her throat and free her frozen limbs, she shakily made her way to the door and opened it to see Primrose offer a polite little smile and mutely gestured for her to enter. She closed the door but remained as still as a statue, watching as the daughter of House Azelhart ambled in over the threshold and took a seat on the side of Ophilia’s bed.

“I know I should ask before I sit here but, well, it seems like you have a lot on your mind, so I want to be a little bit more comfortable first. Is that okay?”

“I’m being punished by Aelfric for letting sin into my heart.”

Primrose’s eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched up in an expression that was nothing short of completely befuddled at the outburst.

“…what? What are you talking about?”

“What do you _mean_ ‘what are you talking about’!? I’m being punished because I’m being consumed by this greedy longing for- for--!” Ophilia shook her head rapidly, blond tresses swaying with the motion, and all but shouted with wild waving of her hands, now unable to look her in the eye “You—I mean, _not even just_ you—for you **and** H’aanit, and it’s--! It is an **_affront_** to my order, to be so affected by this kind of- of _lust_ and _desire_ for multiple people that I can’t think straight, and—and end up awake for hours just thinking about it and how it’s distracting me from my journey! The Embers were taken from me for having the **gall** to think I could substitute for Lianna when all I’m doing is _corrupting_ them on pilgrimage no less!”

Primrose closed her eyes, still frowning, and held up a hand as if to gesture the steadily more hysterical Ophilia to quieten down a moment as well as buy a moment of peace to think. Eventually she peeled open an eye again “…hold on, take a deep breath; you think you’re being divinely judged for mere _thoughts_ you’re having?”

With a hot blush of shame burning her face, the crestfallen Flamebearer nodded rapidly, while wondering why Primrose didn’t seem to pick up on the somewhat blatant confession of hers.

“Never mind that you saw in Stillsnow there were others of Aelfric’s ordained not just using the, uh, ‘services’ of a brothel, they did so with far more eagerness and boldness buying women who were being prostituted out by men with real evil in their hearts?” the dancer went on, with a steel to her eyes at recalling the ordeal of the Obsidian Parlour while Ophilia could only shrink and wilt at the mention of it “And you’re comparing that as somehow more benign than you having naturally developed feelings for two others in your company out of your own free will without pushing it on them?”

She stood up from the bed at a leisurely pace, sliding her hands onto those enthralling hips of hers and swayed towards the now-bashful cleric with a very matter-of-fact demeanour to her whole posture and tone.

“I think the whole thing is absurd, but that’s coming from me. I haven’t had much reason to have faith in anyone but myself.” The statement was being put very delicately; truth be told, Primrose Azelhart had scarce use for gods that had done nothing to help her family in its direst hour. What victories she had won were hard-fought and she had shed immense amounts of blood, sweat and tears for the few she had managed. There was nothing she could really have ascribed to intervention by the Twelve if she could, other than the odd shrines they had stumbled upon recently, but their gifts did not take the lives of Helgenish and Rufus. It was always the dagger her father gave her that put them out of their misery and would do the same to the two crows that still lived.

“’Faith will be your shield’,” Ophilia quietly murmured, sending a curious chill through Primrose to hear her house words spoken by the hitherto frenetic cleric, numbed into a heeding silence. Indeed, faith in herself got her this far, and her dagger was just as much for attack as well as self-defence, but this was not the reason she had come to speak to her journey’s companion.

“It was, is and always will be what I live by, Ophilia, but I’m not here to tell you to live by this creed of mine now,” Primrose replied, reaching over and squeezing her shoulders gently “Nothing is that simple, and it’d be doing your life a disservice by just dismissing it. What I will tell you, is that you should stop and think a moment; if having lustful feelings towards a couple of people simultaneously yet not acting on it is such a great sin that Aelfric punished you for via Lianna, then why have none of the lecherous dogs in Stillsnow been brought to heel by their same supposed master?”

She could see Ophilia flinch a little, but the dancer wasn’t sure if it was the description, the reminder of Stillsnow itself that caused it or even very directly dragging the mere idea of questioning the gods and their acts so directly in front of her. Sighing, Primrose cleared her throat and began the explanation that she hoped would prod the over-penitent Ophilia, now visibly fraying at the edges of her forced calm, into more level-headed thinking while not jeopardising the faith in her holy orders that did get her this far “Alright, perhaps I should’ve posited this better. What I mean is-- Lianna acted of her own wishes because she thought someone had the answer to help your father, and the clergy lingering around Stillsnow neglecting their duties for genuine debased debauchery—they don’t seem to me like they were acting in Aelfric’s name and yet you are punished in their stead? We’re going to go after Lianna in Wispermill to get to the bottom of that very soon and killing Rufus either destroyed that unpleasant underside to Stillsnow or at _very least_ gave those women better conditions, a voice that is heard and even ground with their… clients. You are not being punished for any feelings you have towards me and H’aanit; I may not have the same belief in the Twelve that you do, but I feel strongly—and I’m quite positive H’aanit would agree on this— that Aelfric would not deny his greatest servant the unique happiness she deserves.”

“Even if I’ve developed affection for _two_ people at once--?” Ophilia had started to ask, raising her head to look at Primrose in wide-eyed wonder, on hearing a rational explanation that actually broke through the years of dogmatic chrysalis to pour soothing water on the raging conflagration that ate at her spiritual conscience, when that wide-eyed wonder turned into horror. Her voice subsequently shrilled up a couple of octaves than before, and the dancer could feel a tremor coursing through the girl through her hands “Wh- s-so you heard me just—just admit how I feel about you and H’aanit and you’re not—you’re _not_ surprised?!”

“H’aanit wouldn’t be either,” Primrose merely shrugged with a nonchalance that was galling to the agitated cleric, hands still resting on Ophilia’s shoulders. “Both of us had come to this conclusion a while ago.”

“What!?” Ophilia squealed, covering her face incandescently red with her hands “How did you figure me out?!”

She felt the warmth of the noble Azelhart heiress in the hands that carefully wrapped around her wrists and pry them away from her face. Words coiled her tongue into knots, unable to form a response when she had those hazel eyes turned gold in the lighting gazing softly at her with a playful curl to the edge of her smile “We kind of guessed when we realised you had seen us become intimate together.”

“B-But _how_!?! You couldn’t have--.”

“Considering you had very politely closed the door after yourself, as well as not drawn attention to your being there by asking for an invitation into a private moment, like some men in my time in Sunshade did,” Primrose chuckled musically, moving her head in to follow the shy glance away “Combined with how your personality took a significant shift inward immediately afterwards, it was easy to put two and two together.”

“I… guess I see how you weren’t surprised,” the Flamebearer mumbled with a reluctant acquiescence that evaporated into a renewed confusion “But why aren’t you upset?”

“First of all, why would I be upset that my beautiful, loving and nurturing companion with a wonderfully powerful sense of conviction has taken such an interest in me?” The retort in itself was enough to take the air out of Ophilia’s lungs, never mind the follow up which did another number entirely. “Not just me, but also my partner? She’s stunning, considerate with an air of intriguing mystery to her and it simply makes sense she’d cultivate admiration. Secondly, the initial pillow talk did include how we’re both _quite_ attracted to you too, as well.”

It was rather endearing at how big Ophilia’s eyes were in that moment. Primrose noticed the flicker of the lights in her soft tea-coloured irises made them sparkle brilliantly.

“So, we have been wracking our brains to figure out a way to talk to you about it, but we really didn’t factor the reaction in.”

“B… but how would I—I don’t… I don’t even know what—what it’s like? To… um… to be in a relationship and what that kind of… means?” Never mind one where there were three people in total involved, not that the words ever managed to fall together in a way that Ophilia’s overwhelmed mind could parse, but Primrose could indeed put two and two together when it came to this subject.

“It’s alright. If you want to be part of this but scared you don’t know where to begin, we can take our time. You needn’t worry about jumping into the deep end immediately; I can bring you through it at a slow pace. I think H’aanit is a little bit much when it comes to this anyway—especially for someone new to this.”

The cleric’s face was still of a vivid claret colour to such a point that her companion was getting quite concerned that she would end up dizzy with all the blood rushing to her head. She placed her hands tenderly along the Flamebearer’s jawline, the pad of her thumbs alternating in their strokes along Ophilia’s flushed cheeks “You dictate what you want, what you are okay to try. We stop if you don’t feel comfortable with it, and don’t worry about what I want—because what I want is for you to be happy and safe. If you wish to return the favour though… that’s a different thing.”

The subtlety of that particular flirtation was thin on the ground, enough for the younger woman to catch Primrose’s hints at intimacy towards her being heartily welcomed. Normally Ophilia would flee such a thing, overcome at the myriad factors that would intimidate her from that particular interaction with anyone else, but given that it was Primrose Azelhart, whose story after the death of her father and all-but-total extinction of her house turned gritty and sordid with what she had to do, in order to find any lead to start her path of vengeance… well, the least she could do was think about it, especially when she had offered a lifeline out of deep sacramental turmoil over inner lust. The irony that it was at least one of the very same people that had sparked that exact torment within was not lost on the her in the slightest. Still, because of what she knew of Primrose’s life in Sunshade, there was marked hesitance dampening what would be a lot more interest in such an arrangement with her.

“…What if I hurt you doing so?”

Primrose’s full lips, initially curled into a playful smirk, softened to a sad smile that was joined by overbright eyes, shimmering with soulful gratitude for the honest consideration that embodied Ophilia making its return in such a generous manner.

“It’s… just not _in_ you to hurt anyone you care about; I… I know I can trust you with this.”

It was a startlingly raw statement, one that bucked the trend of feline mischievousness that came hand in hand with dogged ruthlessness in pursuing her goals, one that flipped the torrent of guilt she had been suffering for weeks on its head into a renewed vigour as if Aelfric’s flames of judgement had turned back into the hearth of encouragement they normally were.

“Then… I know I can trust you to guide me through this,” Ophilia eventually said, brow furrowed with determination even if she was about sure that her heart was beating so rapidly and her breath short enough to be extremely audible to Primrose. “Shall we begin?”

“ _Already?_ ”

“ **Gods** , Prim,” the cleric whined, the innermost voice of desire surfacing in it, finding it hard to look her in the eyes but having no problem gazing at the welcoming contours of her neck and along her shoulders “I’ve wanted to do this and dreamt of it far many more times than I can care to count.”

“And if you don’t do it now, you may very well explode?” Primrose offered, laughing with a low, sultry voice again, regaining her usual composure hearing that raw expression of lust escape someone whom she normally knew to be extremely celibate and almost **too** celestial to engage in such an earthly desire. She drew closer, her hands winding around Ophilia’s waist in a close embrace that brought the rapid thump of the cleric’s heartbeat against the admittedly elevated pace in the brunette’s own “Tell me, have you kissed another before?”

“…n-no,” came the admission, and Ophilia’s eyes fluttered away for but a moment until Primrose’s nose brushed hers and demand her full focus anew.

“Then please, allow me this privilege to show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbeta'd as hell (we die like men etc) and everything after the H'aanit and Therion interaction i wrote while obliterated so if it makes sense it actually is a miracle.


	3. canonisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN*
> 
> *BETA PROBABLY LATER I JUST WANTED TO POST BEFORE THE MONTH WAS OUT

Tentative, gloved hands rested on Primrose’s full hips as the dancer leaned in and delicately pressed her lips against Ophilia’s. Anxious knees buckled and if it were not for noble arms holding the nervous cleric close, the strength from her legs vanished so quickly under the new and unknown sensations that crashed over her coherency that she would’ve crumpled to the floor instantly. Primrose pulled back only an inch, her half-lidded cat-gold eyes gazing languidly into Ophilia’s, long since dilated to a near-black at the intensity of their kiss—her first kiss at that, waiting for a verbal response though the short, shallow breathing on her face would perhaps tell her far more than any words would.

“That was…” Ophilia whispered, lips still tingling from this initial brush and mouth dry, unable to really string a whole sentence together after that. Her mouth felt like how she imagined the clouds did with lightning coursing through them mid-storm, electric and heaving with intent—since she certainly felt more committed to learning the intricacies of intimacy after that primer.

“A chaste kiss, but I said I would guide you slowly,” Primrose replied smoothly, taking a moment to slip her hands in at the top of the cleric’s arm-length gloves and scoot them down to her extremities “However, I can’t have these interrupting what is a very physical meeting. You’ll get much more enjoyment without them.”

The Flamebearer obediently and shyly let her bunch up the dark fabric and toss them aside, letting Primrose take her hands once more and insistently place them on the greatest curve of her hips. Feeling bare skin on bare skin as well as the silken red that accentuated the smouldering looks of her companion, friend and now _lover_ , Ophilia’s chest hammered with the surge of speed in her heartbeat at the one-two combination of that potent contact, as well as the realisation sinking in that her longing was _completely_ requited and she would see the fruit of this with Primrose tonight. Though there was still one last little shred of doubt that ate at her, enough to ask “…I, how will I know what to do?”

“Ah, instinct steps in sooner than you think,” Primrose answered, pressing her lips gently along Ophilia’s jaw from her ear towards her chin, pressing the words into her skin and delighting in the sighs she elicited “Communication is what perfects it.”

On that illuminating note, the heiress moved closer again and kissed her, this time deeper and headier with her tongue now delicately brushing against Ophilia’s, who clumsily mimicked it with a gusto that made Primrose hum amusedly. One arm held the cleric close, and she brought a hand free to run her fingers through golden blonde strands, provoking a muffled whimper while the occasional separations for air yielded breathlessness and fond sighs. Eventually, Primrose parted with a soft smile and a teasing twinkle in her lamplight-gilded eyes.

“Don’t be afraid to touch me; you are quite welcome to—I highly doubt you would countenance doing anything that isn’t to my liking. Though allow me to take this moment to ask…” She gently pinched the fabric of Ophilia’s dress to punctuate her question “…may I begin taking this off, or would you prefer to keep it on for a little more until you feel comfortable doing so?”

“I… for now, let me keep it on.”

“Of course,” Primrose nodded, moving her hand away from where it was approaching the buttons on Ophilia’s back to instead rest on the small of her back, pecking her on the corner of her lips lingeringly “You decide if that comes off; after all, disrobing in full is optional when it comes to this.”

She bit her tongue when the extrapolation on that point attempted to filter out of her mouth: Ophilia didn’t really need to hear about the stolen moments on the road where she had the most _incredible_ orgasm that she could not possibly vocalise at the mercy of H’aanit’s dextrous hands, in a sheltered half-cave mere feet away from Alfyn’s watch, and both were still very much garbed. Instead, Primrose opted to gently guide her pliant cleric to lean against the wall. Upon the confused look, she smiled broadly “I don’t trust my physical strength to keep you upright as well as pleasure you.”

Anew the hungry kiss resumed, but for the novel difference that was the dancer’s thigh slyly nudging apart the mewling Flamebearer’s. Ophilia snapped back and Primrose immediately pulled it away, worried she had overstepped, only to find her heart leap into her breastbone hard when her eager lover insistently tugged on her hip to bring that new sensation back so she could truly _dwell_ on it, capture it and add this to the new internal library of physical relationships. It genuinely took Primrose a moment to compose herself after that response, flashing a bold grin at Ophilia and kissed her with a little more abandon, letting her hands down by her sides to begin steadily gathering up the fabric that made up her priestly wear. She watched her for a response, namely one that wanted her to stop, but there was nothing but the Flamebearer’s equally fiery (if still a touch clumsy) kiss, her bare hands now moving up to free her mane of hair from the simple tie.

Primrose had succeeded in bringing the hem of the cleric’s holy dress above her knee, where porcelain-clear skin was revealed, and carefully reached down to make contact once for the sake of Ophilia knowing what was going on. Through stray locks of blonde that caught the light and shimmered like threads of gold, she was met with the slightly dazed look trimmed with the dustings of a blush. Ophilia, for her part, swallowed thickly at how _wild_ Primrose looked with her hair tumbling freely into the mane of waves and curls it was, and unintentionally squeezed at her hips.

“May I touch you?”

To that question, Ophilia nodded rapidly, which yielded a subdued chuckle from her lover who shook her head slightly “ _Heavens_ Ophilia, I know you’re eager, but please allow me to caution you on how the touch of another will feel quite different to your own—it can be quite a shock to the system.”

As if to emphasise, she gently caressed the tips of her fingers up Ophilia’s pale, soft thigh, watching the cleric shudder and feeling it through each digit, stopping once the fabric would not allow her any further—just about at her hip’s level. Primrose leaned in and ever so lightly, briefly, pinched the Flamebearer’s earlobe between her teeth and whispered, “Do I have your leave to go further?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ophilia replied, exhaling once sharply when her lover moved away. She moved a hand up to the dancer’s face and cupped her cheek with fondness in her glazed-over eyes “…but s-slowly, please?”

“Of course.”

Carefully, gradually for the sake of her somewhat overstimulated lover, Primrose circled around Ophilia’s thigh once more to help acclimatise her better to the touch, before trailing towards the inside, towards the crux of her legs. Previously she had only idly daydreamed once or twice about boldly exploring this hallowed part of her holy companion, having banished it to a corner of her mind when she had been uncertain of requital. And yet, here she was: on the very verge of being the first person Ophilia Clement trusted enough with being deeply intimate with, and the acknowledgement was almost as powerful in its weightiness as the keen whine the owner of the name let out just then, feeling Primrose’s skilled hands dance as nimbly as her whole body would at the edges of her undergarments.

This was perhaps the first time in a long time that Primrose hesitated when it came to broaching more involved foreplay, simply because she cared far too much about the other person involved—a unique factor compared to that other occasion, too far back and painful to think about.

As if sensing the sudden, creeping reluctance, Ophilia’s lips were on hers with a burst of sweet and mindful encouragement “I’m okay. I trust you.”

Somehow, to the heiress, this utterance snuck in past her decade’s-worth of emotional and mental defences, wrapping around her aching heart with a soothing pulse that was as if Ophilia’s own transcended bodily limits and nestled beside hers, thrumming with untold depths that beckoned with the warmth of a long-missed hearth. Primrose’s throat tightened with the sudden surge of feelings that thrived on the heartfelt cleric’s words, and kissed her to convey what her words could not, carefully slipping past the final material boundary and finding the dewy treasure that hitherto now had only been mere guilty fantasy. The Flamebearer’s audible gasp in her mouth snapped her out of the reverie and let the dancer seamlessly slide back into where she was far more comfortable and in control of herself, acting as the steady and considerate guide to Ophilia’s first sexual encounter.

Moving back to look at the extremely flushed and somewhat embarrassed looking cleric, Primrose tutted “What’s the matter? This is quite normal! It simply means your body is reacting positively as you are—very natural a function altogether.”

“I—I _know_ that, I just--,” Ophilia mumbled, trying not to think too much about how her hips just as naturally rotated in minute circles around Primrose’s purposefully idle fingers “—they don’t… tell us too much about… about this.”

“The birds and the bees, whatever is simply for reproduction and not fun,” Primrose clarified to the bashful blonde’s rapid nodding. The hypocrisy of the clergy stung something in her stomach, but the less bringing up of Stillsnow and the Obsidian Parlour, the better. Being reminded of how her disdain for the church being proved quite right at this point was a wasteful exercise in smugness, especially when she had _far_ more important things to be doing “What a shame. Well, we know things are not that simple and certainly not for those ordained, but it gives me great joy to show you how this works when it’s for fun and for expressing one’s innermost feelings for another.”

The hand that was not currently making steady lines against Ophilia’s most sensitive of skin was weaving gold out of the enraptured Flamebearer’s face. Primrose could not stop herself from staring; the girl was charmingly pretty no matter where they were or what they were doing, but here to see her descending into the most primal of dances was almost _otherworldly_. Flamesgrace was a long way away from Sunshade, and though many journeyed to the latter for the dancing beauties that reluctantly plied their trade, of which Primrose herself was the jewel in the seedy crown, it would seem the former was cultivating the rarest diamond of them all.

Her tongue coiled in knots, her stomach flipflopped, and an encroaching sense of awe stood over her as she gazed at the whining, undulating cleric, and for all the myriad things she wished she could say only one could make it out of her stuttering lips.

“You are _beautiful_ , Ophilia.”

It seemed strangely reductive, to simply ascribe this laughably basic word to her when the one the dancer _desperately_ wanted to use but _dared **not**_ , lest it draw ire or upset Ophilia, was **_divine_**. Perhaps it was blasphemous to even think of such things, not that Primrose would really care with how her life had been up until recently, but if Aelfric saw fit to grant Ophilia the title of Flamebearer, then really; how sacrilegious was she being, if at all? As if feeling a shred of guilt for such questioning, she pressed noble lips against the breathless cleric’s own. Regardless, something about her made Primrose want to prostrate herself in front and make as many offerings as her body could muster. An idea went off in her head, but cautious for Ophilia’s sake, she would ask first.

“If I may…”

The initial lead-in got her attention, even through the heady sensations of Primrose’s deft touch at the most delicate core of her being.

“…I would like to add more, but it is again another different feeling to my hands.”

“You are—more than perfectly suited to teach me this valuable lesson.”

Ophilia’s breathless expression took on a slightly dopey grin at the noble’s shocked reaction, knowing that in seeing that she had successfully struck with her flirtatious attempt. It might have been enabled only by the prurient entanglement she had dove into willingly, and it _certainly_ felt extra good to beat Prim at her own game—but not out of any malice, just pure fondness. Despite the brief victory, she was quite content to acknowledge such spirited language would probably remain wholly separate from the ears of the rest of the group, reserved for these private moments. Eventually the dancer recovered with a good-natured laugh, softened at the edges by the twinkling of what could only be construed as love in her eyes.

And so, Primrose lowered herself onto her knees, casting a devious wink upwards “You may wish to lean more into the wall when I start.”

The Flamebearer obeyed, and as her lover angled her head upwards beneath the snow-white cloth of Aelfric’s ordained, she was at once grateful for the structural integrity of the wall, the gods who made Primrose Azelhart, and the chain of events that led to this moment. Ophilia had meagre awareness of what varied techniques one could use, when her only experience were a mere few, extremely private occasions where a scorching need burned within her and would not disperse until she clumsily pleasured it out of herself, and that was only with her hands. How was she supposed to know how **intoxicating** the feeling of a _tongue_ there would be?

She couldn’t stop her hips from rolling in towards the wonderful source of these head-spinning sensations, the natural order of her body overpowering the feeble notion of stoicism as some remnant of inner decorum. With a growing pace of panting, Ophilia’s fingers wove through the waves of silken soft hair, the sound of her heart drumming louder and faster in her head as if each pulse pushed any would-be thought right back out of her mind and through her mouth. And when all she could think about was Primrose, all she could _feel_ was _Primrose_ , and all she could **_taste_** was **_Primrose_** , it only made sense that the only word she could rasp was indeed the name of her magnificent tormentor.

For the owner of that very name, to hear it uttered with such powerful reverence and resonance as if it were a psalm that Aelfric reverberating through Ophilia herself spoke, she hummed once as she pulled back—her turn to be overwhelmed. Against the wall, the cleric mewled, her hands shaking through noble locks, still taking great care to not pull or tug but simply _feel_ , unaware when Primrose’s diligent, dextrous fingers still moved even if her tongue was not there for the moment. For Primrose, she was _levelled_ by the distinct realisation that even the earthy, organic act of making love is one that Ophilia Clement can bless into a sacramental act in itself, ascending it into a heavenly status beyond even the climax would bring.

For that reason, the Azelhart heiress didn’t want to just tease her over the brink against the wall like any other back alley encounter; Ophilia was **_extraordinary_** to her and not simply owing to the title of Flamebearer (even if Aelfric’s Lanthorn was elsewhere, she was still the one chosen by the god). She needed to take proper care of her, and that meant her cleric needed somewhere comfortable to be truly, _fully_ coaxed into the promised land. To that end, Primrose continued her ministrations, albeit tapering them off at a gradual pace as she moved back and stood once again. Her voice was huskier than before, laden with that intent that still tingled in Ophilia’s lips—both sets, at that “I… I think we should get you to the bed before I go any further, and I am… a little overdressed for bed right now.”

Even though the Flamebearer was steeped in heady pleasure to the point where her reaction time was suitably delayed, she could not stop herself from cracking a smile and glancing down at the comparatively meagre fabric that adorned Primrose when juxtaposed with Aelfrican order wear.

“…hah, I know. While I can make the difference even more drastic,” Primrose retracted her hand from the crux of Ophilia’s legs and made a pointed show of cleaning her fingers with her tongue, gazing into darkened brown eyes. She hummed at the novel taste of such exalted essence, smirking at the loud unrestrained whimper her lover gave at the sight though her own focus was slightly elsewhere “I’d prefer if you dictated the pace of how dressed or undressed _both_ of us are.”

To punctuate it, Primrose kicked off her sandals, which twigged something in Ophilia, and she immediately rushed—shakily—to unlace her hardy travel boots. It might have looked appallingly clumsy and in no way seductive like she wished she could be for the waiting dancer, but such a quality was unnecessary in Primrose’s eyes, when all she wanted was for the cleric to just be **_herself_** , the most perfect Ophilia of all; nothing more, nothing less. What she did instead of pointless critique, was stand closer, so that the fumbling blonde would follow the alluring length of her legs up, to see Prim hook her thumbs on the inside of her thin dancing skirt’s band and tug it down until it teetered close to exposing her nether region—for the moment the movement drew more attention to the inviting hip creases that pointed to her implicit destination.

Ophilia quickly moved to sit on the bed in order to hurriedly kick her boots off, standing upright with a spring in her step, and kissed Primrose once before she looked at the laughable material barriers that remained between her and seeing the heiress in her full untamed glory. There was a brief locking of eyes, and the dancer nodded encouragingly, sliding her bangles off of her hands, leaning over to throw them on the bedside table with a dull clang. The Flamebearer’s hands curled around the bottom of the crimson hem and pulled upwards once, only continuing when Primrose pliantly lifted her arms and let her pull the whole thing in one decisive swipe. A feline smile answered the return of the quite discernible change in Ophilia’s breathing, now focused out of parted pink lips as she stared at the lovely contours that made up the dancer’s chest now bared, very much within reach versus that stolen moment when H’aanit—oh she couldn’t think about that _now_ , not when she was free to touch as she pleased rather than merely dream from afar.

Primrose brushed gold out of Ophilia’s face and behind her ear, patiently waiting for the latter to make her move at her pace, shortly gasping when warm hands cupped her breasts and kneaded gently. Another kiss, but this was languid, lingering and loving in nature, with the heiress marvelling how quickly and astutely her learning partner caught on. _Instinct is a powerful thing_ , she thought, groaning softly. Indeed, despite her overtures to Ophilia, the noble’s own hands possessively, automatically clutched at the cleric’s slender hips and brought them together firmly in response. Even in spite of her whispered apologies for ostensibly stepping over her own lines that she had drawn to begin with, Primrose was only taken aback by how her Flamebearer only grew in intensity rather than fizzle away and retreat from the gesture. Rather than angle back her hips, Ophilia adamantly pressed them harder, moving her upper body instead to pointedly undo the top button of her dress while gazing into wide-eyed dark golds.

“Are… are you sure?” Primrose rasped, breath hot and quick against the cleric’s face, surprised by the enthusiasm and still so _careful_ to be mindful.

“ ** _Yes_** ,” was the matter of fact, though equally flustered, response, as Ophilia now mimicked an earlier gesture and took the dancer’s hands gently, guiding them to the space where the next button awaited its undoing. To think how shy Aelfric’s chosen was at the beginning of this meeting compared to now was like comparing wavering ice to the present fire, and while the change was certainly welcomed, Primrose still had one red line she would not back from.

“I shall, but first,” in one swoop, rather than Prim’s dancing fingers hover over the buttons that would pry Ophilia free of her vocation’s material bindings, the heiress instead brought those holy hands to wide hips “I would rather it be _me_ who is the first one wholly bare; only because I’m no stranger to it before another.”

Ophilia blinked, her head tilted slightly to the side imploringly, knowing there was another part to this that Primrose was sitting on. Even so, her digits did not remain still in such a position, already idly grasping along the golden chain belt that adorned noble hips to unbuckle it, her body racing ahead of her brain.

“Ah… and to permit you a little bit more time to be totally comfortable with disrobing in full.”

“I thank you for your consideration,” the cleric breathed, succeeding in seamlessly removing the jewellery and placing it by the bangles. Back her hands went onto the crimson sash, finding the clasp on the rear-most side, and flashing an amused smile up at her lover “…though I do wonder if there’s part of you that wants to show off to me just as much.”

“Mmm, _perhaps_ that’s also the case,” Primrose quietly laughed, eyes half-lidded and shining with a golden brilliance more so than any of her metallic décor could aspire to “I insist it’s more the former over the latter.”

The fabric gave and like that, the exotic skirt collapsed instantly into a puddle of silk on the floor. Only one more slip of material remained, and to the visual of Ophilia’s pre-existing blush intensifying, Primrose reclined her upper half onto the bed, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing up at the cleric while none-too-subtly directing her to commit to the final piece of undressing her, the jewel of Sunshade, that so _many_ dreamt of but none would ever share in intimacy on a level that she reciprocated like she did now. The Flamebearer took her in, and while lust was absolutely swirling about her person, her expression was far too gentle for pure salaciousness—enough to take the essentially horizontal noble back out of her armour; the same kind of armour that she would don when reluctantly obliging certain high-paying customers in her time serving that tavern. No one had ever looked at her in this way, not until she met H’aanit and Ophilia, and even H’aanit’s panoptic, earthy brand of love did not reach the same celestial echelons that the cleric brought with her own.

She was only aware of how she must have looked to Ophilia when the younger woman gave her a vulnerably tender look and moved in closer to kiss her slowly, gazing at her for what felt like much longer and somehow even more profound than the contact itself was. Golden strands scattered about Primrose’s slightly tanned skin as Ophilia’s lips traced what words she could only guess at down her sleek, toned abdomen, fingers entangling in her undergarments and pulling them free.

Rather than stand back and take it all in, like most previous but eminently forgettable partners did, Ophilia simply knelt down just out of her line of vision. If this were H’aanit, Primrose would know exactly what she would be up to when confronted with the noble bare and wanton, normally soon feeling powerful shoulders part her legs as a deft tongue would taste her avidly, but this was _Ophilia Clement_ , who had _only_ just learned such a thing possible.

“What are you doing down there?” Primrose called, avoiding any sort of overtly inquisitive tone, both curious and wondering if there was more Aelfrican dogma she was working through.

“I’m giving thanks.”

Absolutely _not_ what she was expecting, the dancer was lost for words as for the sudden resurgence of Orsterra’s Flamebringer in the conversation so acutely, nothing coming to her in a manner that she could immediately conceive a way to gently show him out the room—metaphorically of course. But even so, it would be doing Ophilia and what she has done so far an incredible disservice, especially when Primrose herself had reasoned that Aelfric would not cast a dour look at their soon-to-be union. So, rather than try rush her dearest dove out of her ritual, she simply asked “What for?”

And then Ophilia stood up, illuminated from behind in a way that her gold crown of hair caught the light and glowed with a halo of incandescence, and her face the picture of loving godliness that Primrose Azelhart had never seen in any church, nor any other cleric of the Twelve. She offered her hands towards the reclining, awestruck noble “For meeting everyone. For meeting you.”

Primrose mutely took the offer, and let herself be pulled up to her feet once again, scarcely able to comprehend how she had been utterly bowled over by such a gesture, one that if you had told her would happen in such a liaison she would have laughed you out of the town, yet the very same had rendered her awed and speechless. Now she stood toe to toe with Ophilia and merely a couple of inches from her saintly smile, and her idle hands were placed once more around the cleric’s shoulders onto the second of the buttons still waiting to be undone. It took another kiss to snap her out of her stunned reverie, breaking into a quiet giggle and a shake of her head, looking at her lover with deep affection “You really… you really are something else. Practically incorrigible, I might say.”

The Flamebearer chuckled and brushed her nose against Primrose’s “I thought you said ‘incorruptible’ for a moment, but--.”

It revived a bit more of the quick wit in the dancer, who rallied to cut across any more church talk, but Ophilia still cut through with a knowing look “— _but_ I know there’s nothing _corrupting_ about this now. There’s nothing sinful here, not when one is truthfully expressing one’s deepest held feelings in a way that words can’t.”

“…that’s it, exactly,” Primrose replied quietly, lingering her gilded-hazel eyes over the softer tea-coloured tones in her cleric. Ophilia smiled earnestly, squeezing the dancer’s wrists once to remind her what was next, and diligently she answered, steadily unbuttoning the back of the Aelfrican robe.

Once she ran out of buttons, reaching just above the small of the Flamebearer’s back, the heiress’ hands glided along the slight waist and up her flanks to tug down the free edges of the opened collar, prising them away from Ophilia’s neck and revealing her shoulders. Primrose leaned in and pressed her lips against the pulse of life in her lover’s neck once, pulling the hem further down and exposing the elegant lines of her collarbone, milky white if not for the thick blush that matched the one that still coloured her cheeks. On and on, until Ophilia delicately retracted her hands free of the short sleeves that now lay, with the rest of the upper half of the dress, limp over her thighs. Primrose retained eye contact the entire time, even as she sank back to her knees mimicking her earlier position, bringing the remainder of the ceremonial white cloth down into an unceremonious pile onto the wooden floor. She pecked once on both thighs like one would kiss two sanctified items for blessing, languidly rubbing up and down the rear of Ophilia’s legs in deliberate steady waves, towards the humble undergarments that were the meagre opposition earlier to her forward touch, and would finally be dismissed once the cleric gave the okay.

In truth, Primrose was perhaps a touch too overcome to do anything even approaching push Ophilia to the bed, still trying to comprehend what was such an angelic figure willing to sink to the depths that she had, in order to converse with her in a manner older than time. She would do nothing until the cleric indicated her agreeability to it and would wait patiently for as long as it took until then, happy to fulfil any other wishes the Flamebearer could possibly have in the interim. As luck would have it, all Ophilia wanted was _her_ , and as such only wanted to experience the full depths of her first time with the heiress.

She remained knelt for the moment, staring up at this heavenly vision that she had the honour of teaching the nature of intimacies and the most ancient language of humanity. Primrose’s hands curled around the edges of the last vestiges of decency obscuring Ophilia’s delicate core, but did not move any further, gazing up at her to receive the overwhelmingly loving look in the cleric’s eyes and the soft touch of blessed fingers brushing over hers and squeezing encouragingly. Permission was granted in this wonderfully unspoken gesture, and thus the heiress just had to acquiesce, bringing the material down to join its discarded compatriots scattered among the rug-covered floorboards.

Ophilia expected Primrose to return to where she was previously tongue-first, but was surprised pleasantly when instead the dancer stood and embraced her closely, the sensation of warm skin against hers increasing the rate of her heart’s tempo, the rapidity of her breath. It was in that moment that she believed _fully_ what Prim had said that Aelfric would not have cast judgment on her, not when this felt so correct, so true, so caring and intimate and not on any level of perverse that the Flamebearer had naively thought it would be—it wasn’t as if she didn’t believe Primrose’s word, but it was one thing to be convinced by word and argument, and _another_ when all of her other senses were consumed by the action that solidified the statement into reality.

Gravity changed, and Ophilia let out a small squeak as the heiress fell backwards with her still held close and pulled the two of them onto the bed. She glanced down to see Primrose’s dark chestnut-brown hair sprawl across the sheets, with love glittering in her hazel eyes and in the curl of her serene, full lips. Another kiss followed, ponderous and deep, and eventually Prim saw fit to change their positions, rolling on top of Ophilia and scooting aside to coax her to lie her head back on the pillow. She snugly held her, burying her face in the crook of the cleric’s neck and lay kisses along the elevated pulse, down to the dip between her inviting clavicles, feeling the heat of the blush emanate just a little above it. Primrose wound an arm beneath Ophilia’s back, holding her close as her free hand began its own dance; first she trailed her nails featherlight down to the valley of the flustered Flamebearer’s breasts, and then she pressed her lips to one as her fingers massaged and caressed the other, lingering and slow, swapping over with a smile as she heard a whisper of her name, and pressing on with her touch.

Ophilia squirmed, but only slightly, the sensations new but not by any means unwanted, watching keenly though her eyes occasionally fluttered closed and her skin tingled when Primrose’s touch struck true. She hadn’t really touched herself in such a manner—well she hadn’t really touched herself much to _begin_ with but that was beside the point—so she tried to learn from the example, even if instinct would make itself known. Then, the dancer moved upright and looked at her as if contemplating her next action, thorough and deliberate.

“Tell me if anything I do next makes you uncomfortable, so that I may stop.”

“Thank you Prim,” Ophilia answered, angling her upper body upward to give her a grateful peck on the corner of her mouth—not unlike how Prim did the same earlier “but I know you would never do such a thing. I’m ready.”

Heartened, and perhaps a little taken aback but once again pleasantly so, Primrose nodded and let her hand touch its way downwards to the most sacred part of her lover, languorously stroking the sensitive skin to let Ophilia get accustomed to it once more. She made long and steady movements that brought deep throbs of growing pleasure within the wriggling younger woman at her mercy, especially as her thumb made circles over the delicate nub that yielded sharp whines of her name and whispers begging for that little bit more.

To that end, she carefully angled her index finger to the slick entrance that lay beneath the spot her thumb studiously touched, and pressed it in, to slight tension halting any attempt at swift and total incursions. Primrose watched Ophilia’s eyes scrunch up tight on the initial breach, stopping that and continuing the rest of her more surface ministrations, until she heard a defiant little urging “More.”

“More?”

“ _More_.” Insistent, but not in the tone of demand, and absent of any inherent aggression—both qualities alien to Ophilia normally—instead just a firm enough prompt to reassure her lover that it was just a case of her body being new to the sensation, a sure and gradual acclimatisation rather than rejection. Primrose nodded, kissing her again and cautiously slipped in once more, pushing at a leisurely pace until she was up to her palm, absolutely entranced by how her cleric keened and writhed in response, pale limbs wrapping around the dancer as pretty tea-coloured eyes fixed on Prim’s own, beneath flittering heavy eyelids.

“Ophilia, love, do you need me to stop a moment?”

Her chest rose and fell visibly, panting lightly as Ophilia with a shake of her head brushed a shaky hand by Primrose’s cheek wordlessly, licking her dry lips. The heiress leaned into the gesture, kissing the hand but never once breaking the eye contact, exhaling suddenly as she felt the cleric’s inner walls clench around her finger.

“Gods, you are _stunning_ ,” she said quietly, a haggardness to her voice that she didn’t even expect, the incredible vision that was the Flamebearer beneath her just conquering everything she had previously known. It was funny how Primrose had found in her two newest bedfriends two radically different experiences, though both founded on an equal playing field compared to, well, _any_ of her previous relationships; H’aanit the grounded, the practical, the stoic, strong but mindful with her powerful body, theirs a relationship based on mutual respect and pragmatic attitudes and now Ophilia with the sharp contrast of amiable, optimistic to the point of naivety, inherently kind and good and exceptionally gentle with all she did, underlined with a sanctity around her very being that went beyond the Aelfrican orders she swore to, like it was her destiny to begin with. Between her and the huntress, they had both remarked on this quality that transcended their own cosy little entanglement, down-to-earth and anchored surely, versus the fascinating, heavenly draw of pious Ophilia who may as well be a splinter of Aelfric himself for her dedication, her piety and heartful generosity and kindness to all—for all they knew she may as well be a divine walking among them.

“Kiss me,” the cleric begged, and Primrose obliged, carefully retracting her finger from holy warmth to earn a keening cry in the break for air “ _Please_.”

“Anything,” her honeyed whisper replied, as she pressed back in through hopelessly slick folds and yielded a groan that seized her heart and very much her loins as well, and set both of them alight with heartsore want, while hazel-gold drank in the sight of growing ecstasy build in her joyfully reeling partner beneath her, eyes full of adoration “ **Anything** for you.”

“Oh **_gods_** ,” Ophilia wailed, her fingernails digging into Primrose’s back, her hips pushing with vigour and drive emblematic of the Flamebearer normally, but with lusty abandon that she had learned only at Primrose’s mercy. Coaxing anyone into an orgasm was an easy task for the dancer, of course, having exceptionally practiced hands and well-equipped to communicate on almost intuitive levels just what her partner of the moment requires, but this is on another echelon entirely. How many could say that they were the first to introduce the Flamebearer of their current time to the wonders of sexual congress? How many could say the same of doing so for someone who exceeded the honours that title held normally, and perhaps could be considered as saintly as the very Twelve themselves?

“Are you getting close?”

Instinct was truly in play now, as the cleric nodded briefly “I think so.”

Primrose considered the power Ophilia had even as she danced, so to speak, to every play of experienced fingers—plural, as the cleric’s arousal was so great and her body so willing that the heiress found purchase with another joining her first— enough power to elicit echoes of like pleasure in the bottommost depths of the noble herself, even though Ophilia had not touched her yet whatsoever to such extent. She watched her writhe and plead, roll her hips and throw her head back as deft hands pushed onwards with increased speed and power while that lone thumb magnified the ecstatic waves that clearly began to swirl within. Even if Primrose had not been caressed to the same profoundly intimate manner that she had been doing so to the mewling Flamebearer, simply seeing her so _wanton_ and so close to her first climactic peak was doing almost equally _unspeakably_ **_wonderful_** things to her too, her throat dry and her own heartbeat elevated enough she could hear it in her ears dully, underlining the elysian chorus she was listening to. And when Ophilia finally broke and howled for her dancer by name, repeating it as if it was all she knew as her body seized up in an arch of pure ecstasy, clutching her with all she had and shuddering violently as she felt every reverberation through her nerves, Primrose could only stutter out an audibly heavy gasp as if the vision before her had somehow gripped her by the crux of her legs with equally intense touch.

Oh, how the heiress committed that singing of her name to memory, the way it sounded out of sacred lips like a gospel unto itself, how she would tattoo the heavenly vision of beautiful Ophilia coming undone beneath her into her mind so that it would be a permanent fixture of her dreams. Far be it from Primrose to stop just as soon as climax was achieved, she kept going, tapering the touch off and letting her dear dove ride out the waves declining steadily. Eventually as her hand ceased its motion, ebbing out stably, letting the cleric recover and catch her breath, Ophilia’s hands moved to cup Primrose’s jaw and through glassy eyes peeking through heavy lids she gazed adoringly up at her. Naturally, the dancer followed the gesture in for a kiss but for a single index finger placed between her lips and those she sought. Confused, Primrose opened her eyes to see that dazzling smile through glimmering light-brown eyes, and as Ophilia’s hands returned to where they were previously, she felt the gentle breath on her lips of three simple words that her brain barely had any time to comprehend, before her heart clung to it like it was the final aspect missing of what it had sought all her life; Ophilia’s all-enveloping ardour hand in hand with the all-encompassing safety of H’aanit’s arms.

And all she could really do then, was admit that to her in that raw moment. She had started out her grim journey very much alone, and in her hour of need not only one but two halves of a worldly whole came to her side as if the divines themselves had… well, Primrose may have been bereft of the gods in her early life, but on reflection, perhaps they were trying to make up for it sevenfold with sending these staunch allies who offered their help in her quest, and _hundredfold_ with the presence of two women who might just save her from herself when all was said and done.

The Flamebearer hummed, continuing to lock eyes as if it were the means through which her soul could commune with Primrose’s own—it **_felt_** like it to the noble; the hearthfire that she felt seep into her bones and coil around her innermost spirit like a protective, nurturing veil. Her breathing was even, and she sidled down alongside the curious dancer until Ophilia was now nestled between Primrose’s legs. While the change of gear was welcomed, in that her boldness indicated the willingness to learn more and comfortable acquiescence to the vulnerabilities exposed intimacy invited, the heiress erred on the side of caution, wondering if it was a little much for her to jump to this particular dimension “Ophilia, love, you don’t have to--.”

“I’d like to, if I may.”

“…If that’s the case, far be it from me to deny you this,” Primrose answered, lifting her shoulders in an over-the-top shrug joined by a good-natured roll of her eyes “Don’t be discouraged if I direct you. I simply know what I like, and you can’t read my mind.”

Eagerly her lover nodded, her brow slightly furrowed as she focused down, thinking back to how the dancer applied her knowledge and how she would utilise it with hopefully similar success. Ophilia ignored the hot flush in her face that was becoming something of an old friend with how long it was hanging about and nestled down to another of many firsts she was experiencing tonight. She felt Primrose’s hand lazily run through her hair, content enough to wait for her to make the approach when she was ready but was _not_ expecting it with the aplomb the cleric applied.

As for Ophilia, she understood why Primrose went for such an action first thing into their liaison, with her first kiss to lips below resulting in a _salacious_ purr that revived a fresh shuddering wave in her loins, as well as the fingers running in her hair stopping and grasping it firmly. Whatever novel oddness lay in the taste of such fruit was quickly adjusted to, especially considering it yielded such bounty in the form of the slow undulation of noble hips towards her diligent tongue.

Instinct indeed became paramount, overriding what conscious thought of tactile tactics Ophilia had in mind, operating purely on primal hunch though with the occasional playful innovation such as thinking to trace the letters of her name on the crux of Primrose’s legs with the tip of her tongue, listening to how beautifully the dancer could sing as much as move. Indeed, the heiress of house Azelhart stopped for moments of lucidity where she murmured suggestions barely above audible level, and her attentive student obeyed, curling two fingers within her deeply, the palm facing up and yielding a _delectable_ howl of her name. The sight that met her when she craned her view above the rolling hips was unparalleled, far more intense and spine-tingling to see Primrose reacting lustily to her touch than to be a bystander on intercourse that didn’t involve her—though potentially _could_ in future.

Such thoughts were hastily filed away for later, when her lover arched upwards and began to meet her steadily more forceful thrusts with her own, staring her down with a lascivious challenge that would have made even the unyielding H’aanit shy away. Hypnotised by gilded hazel, Ophilia’s eyes remained fixed as she toiled with tongue and hands to please her dear heiress, unable to blink or even momentarily glance away when Primrose closed her feline eyes and threw her head back to let out a leonine roar of ‘ ** _Ophilia_** ’, powerful hips bucking near uncontrollably, climactically. Recalling how she was gently carried back over her apex and its waning echoes, the attentive cleric applied her practically learned lesson to Primrose rumbling praise and gratitude alike.

Eventually, with a flex of sweat-lined abdominal muscles, the dancer sat upwards, crawling over to Ophilia and with an impish smirk, took hold of the hand that had worked restlessly, _wonderfully_ at her core and licked them clean. The Flamebearer swooned with a renewed surge of dizzying concupiscence that the gesture incurred, perhaps fainting outright if not for the powerful kiss that followed the lustful motion.

“How are you feeling?” Primrose asked quietly, holding her close, stroking gold that clung to Ophilia’s cheek.

“I… I don’t really have words,” she answered honestly with a sheepish and mildly dazed smile, leaning slightly into her “Incredible and overwhelmed are the best I can do.”

“There is one last thing I’d like to do, but if you feel it’s too much, I’m content to stop,” the dancer replied, pulling her into a tight, reassuring hug “My pace is one that might outstrip yours, especially on your first night experiencing such things. Besides, it’s not as if we are limited to just this night; plenty of opportunities lie in our future.”

Though Primrose winked and Ophilia giggled bashfully at it, the former was still vehement in her insistence, adopting a more earnest look to previous playfulness “But really, this is _your_ decision; I have no interest in pushing you out of your comfort zone, nor will I ever.”

Serene was the smile that Ophilia responded to her with, a warm expression that took her flushed, sweaty look and turned it into perfect, sunny incandescence. Even if she might protest it herself, she really was an avatar of the heavens in human form, sent to Orsterra for far more than the ‘mere’ Kindling of Aelfric’s Flame, and Primrose knew that H’aanit would absolutely agree with such observations. She was destined for something wonderful, and if she could be part of that, Primrose would start giving thanks to Aelfric far more frequently.

“You’re so considerate, Primrose; I’ve been truly blessed to have you as a friend, a-and now, well…”

“Lover?” was offered, but no silly little tones or smirks were present, just raw emotion in the noble’s hopeful countenance.

“It’d be silly to say otherwise after everything, I think,” the Flamebearer giggled sweetly.

Their journey was still in its early days, but given what they had all experienced together, the friendship among the collective of eight was ironclad. When the emotions of three intermingled in the exposure of Orsterra’s rotten underbelly, whose corruption ran grim gouges into even the Flamebringer’s own Church, the bonds were greater, forged from meteorite in a magma cauldron, and Ophilia did not doubt that she would remain very much in the company of the two who kept her going, even when she was questioning everything she had known as absolute truths. Lover did not seem to encapsulate the encyclopaedia of feelings for Primrose and H’aanit generated within the cleric, but there was plenty left to do before she was ready to ascribe a term to what they all were.

Which, for her, included the half-suggestion that the dancer floated about as she collected her senses post-orgasm.

“I would like to see what you wish to do last, as well,” Ophilia whispered, bold enough to sidle up closer in a way that betrayed a curiously supernal desire subtly bubbling beneath, the juxtaposition of such things more than enough to rob Primrose of a witty response “I’d like to believe I have about enough energy for it.”

“Then I can only oblige you,” the heiress breathed, kissing her in reply and guiding her to lie back on the bed once more. What she was about to do was something that H’aanit in fact had introduced to her in one of their inn room couplings, a position that had taken her somewhat off guard but one she warmed up very quickly to, and one that would make sense to show Ophilia before the full dynamics of their little amorous unit were to be explored. Specifically, once she had laid the Flamebearer back down, Primrose shifted herself to the end of the bed and, hooking one of the cleric’s legs upward, angled her hips against Ophilia’s until slick skin made contact _exquisitely_ with hers. There was a plea made for the gods and she wasn’t sure if was her, Ophilia or both of them at once. She sat up somewhat, propped up by rigidly straight arms anchoring her to the simple footrest at the end of the bed, and licked dry lips.

“Follow my lead, love.”

Perhaps she was a little optimistic to think she would have the energy for this, to think that she wouldn’t be so deeply affected by introducing Aelfric’s chosen Flamebearer to the joys of ultimate intimacy, and would be capable of rotating through all kinds of positions that she had been with H’aanit. What was scarcely Act 1 in her private moments with another had almost totally taken her to the very limit, and Primrose could only reason that it was because of how profoundly she cared and loved the saintly Ophilia, that she did not have the same wellspring of energy when quite simply every single facet of her being was devoted to her.

Perhaps she was merely still sensitive after holy lips and beatified tongue consecrated what had known only base desires and not honest, sacred love.

Whatever the case may have been, she would neither know nor care, as her body moved shakily to grind hard and steady against Ophilia, who returned it with keening whines and rolling hips. Primrose laughed lowly realising she was already within view of another apex of pleasure, but only gazed fondly at her Flamebearer whose own climax was apparent and equally as immediate in her future. Their dance was clumsy, quivering limbs mustering what strength was in reserve to remain upright, but the synchronised movement was pinpoint and perfect, with how Primrose’s sex glided so heavenly against Ophilia’s and how the cleric met every caress with an equally mighty and heartful one of her own. Neither spoke anything coherent bar calling for the other by name, with a weightiness that would’ve equally served reciting Orsterran gospels of the Twelve. Though they both could not quite muster the same explosive gusto for this entanglement, the discipline to retain their form was resolute until either one carried the other into the embrace of pure ecstasy.

When Ophilia whimpered for Primrose in a way that her voice dropped into a whisper at the end, the noble immediately shifted her upper body weight onto the one arm, as her newly freed hand sought for one of the cleric’s curled into the sheets. Seizing it, she interwove their fingers and squeezed tightly, holding on as she pushed down, grinding with purpose and drive, reassuring her quaking lover she was here with her for every step of the way. Before long, Ophilia rose up fully from the sheets and howled for Primrose, coming undone before her and hard enough to drag her over the edge too with how her body trembled and bucked in the throes of orgiastic bliss. Unable to contain herself, or even pretend to do so, the noble screamed her name and all she knew was paradisiac pleasure that enveloped all of her senses.

The next few seconds were unknowable to either, utterly exhausted and still very much consumed by the vestiges of almighty orgasms that rendered the women thusly. As the rest of the world and their faculties returned, Primrose moved first with all the enthusiasm of dear Linde being coaxed from a particularly warm sunbeam, and with similar feline tendencies, she nuzzled in close to Ophilia, ignoring how sticky and hot they both were for the sake of the afterglow. She pressed her lips to every available inch of the tired Flamebearer’s chest, collarbones, and neck, as far as her own body would let her stretch to with what precious little energy she had left.

“Thank you,” Ophilia whispered, brushing her nose against Primrose when the dancer looked up at her.

“That’s my line.”

“ _Really_ ,” the blonde stressed “I mean it.”

“Well then, let me be thankful that you couldn’t keep your feelings bottled in any longer,” Primrose retorted with a hoarse chuckle, moving so she was fully atop of the cleric “I don’t think either myself nor H’aanit could ever have thought of a good way to broach the subject of a relationship with you if you hadn’t made the first move.”

“ _Prim_ ,” the supposed instigator winced, embarrassed for her past self of perhaps two or three hours ago now blundering in the way she had.

“I’m glad though,” she insisted, punctuating it with a peck to the slight button-nose she found so endearing “I’m happy I don’t have to tiptoe about my feelings for you anymore either.”

“I love you, Primrose.”

It took the owner of the name a moment to collect herself, given the fiery intensity of the look the appropriately titled Flamebearer gave her from where she lay joined hand in hand with the words she had stated so determinedly. What a difference some hours made, where Ophilia had once agonised over what it meant to be a sister of Aelfric’s church when her body’s primal needs and desires rose in apparent conflict to it, compared to now where she had reconciled these with ease. It was how powerfully she married the two into a newfound source of focus and inner strength that took both her and Primrose off guard, but she brought it around and wore it like a new mantle.

“I know; I love you too, Ophilia, and I would do anything to help get you that Lanthorn back,” Primrose eventually replied, looking away with an edge to her hazel-gold eyes “Lianna is lucky she has you for a sister. I don’t think I’d be able to hold back with her should we find her, if not for that.”

“…I would hear her out. What matters more, are those crows.”

The noble raised a brow, imploring her to continue the thought.

“I know—I know that wasn’t a punishment that Aelfric sent to me, with the Lanthorn being taken. Lianna can be reasoned with, whatever her reasons for doing what she did are. These men cannot,” Ophilia inhaled slowly, moving her hands to rest lightly on Primrose’s hips “And to that end I am prepared to do anything in order to bring these men to justice. If this punishment involves their death, so be it.”

“Ophilia… I can’t expect--.”

“No, Prim,” she interrupted, now placing her hands on either side of the heiress’ conflicted face “I know you don’t expect me to, but I want to. I want to do this for you, _with_ you. If it puts your soul at ease to see them gone from this world… then I’ll do it.”

Somewhat guiltily, she glanced away, unsure how to parse her new inner struggle, with Ophilia’s ardent volunteering to help kill these men when that was not exactly something Aelfric stood for either. Introducing her to the many joys of sex was one thing, because that simply just wasn’t a sin that she had built it up to be before Primrose explained away the hesitations, but murder… even if these men ruined her life, it was still difficult to reconcile that with something the Flamebearer should be getting involved in, and a Flamebearer who may as well be a splinter of Aelfric’s holy essence walking. As if sensing this, Aelfric’s own chosen pressed her lips against Primrose’s softly.

“He does not condone this, but I don’t think He would condone the destruction of a man’s family either. I… will simply have to atone for this some other way, but I _need_ to be there for you when they still haunt your thoughts. If I can aid your family’s dagger in doing so, all the better, because I’d be there with **_you_**.”

“What a role reversal,” Primrose sighed with a sad looking smile.

“What is?”

“To think I started off by explaining how intimacy between consenting and loving adults is not a sin to you, but now I’m trying to think of how not to get you involved in my journey for vengeance,” she answered, clasping her hands loosely just below the dip of Ophilia’s clavicle and resting her chin on them “And how you fretted over being in love with two people who are interested in returning it initially, now to justify helping me in some horrible, dirty business of revenge.”

“I’m not exactly _enthused_ about it,” Ophilia protested weakly. Primrose chuckled, and she could only smile.

“I suppose, but I… I’m still taken aback by the gesture, teasing about dogmatic adherence asides.”

Primrose dipped her head downwards, feigning a yawn that she was muffling when in actuality she was rubbing the beginnings of some unexpected tears from the corners of her eyes. The act was paper-thin; even if she thought she was doing a good job, Ophilia saw right through it.

“Prim, are you okay?”

“Ah… perhaps taken aback was putting it lightly, overwhelmed is more fitting,” came the honest response, which earned her another soft kiss “I suppose we’ve both had plenty of excitement for the day. Let’s get some rest, I daresay Cyrus’ expedition will be successful if we haven’t heard any word asking for help.”

Ophilia glanced in the direction of the door innocently “What about H’aanit?”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. We talked about what would happen when I went to speak with you, and she knew that if I don’t come out of this room until the next day, that could only have meant one thing: that you were indeed very amenable to being part of the relationship.”

“I think amenable is putting it lightly,” the Flamebearer murmured, cuddling up to her heiress “I’m a little nervous about it, but I know I’m in good hands.”

“Only the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck this has taken me literally a month to write one chapter
> 
> to be terribly honest even though i have implied an ot3 idk if i have the skills to write one, i mostly really wanted to write Primrose/Ophilia bc that's what happens when you listen to 'like a prayer' on repeat and the idea simply refuses to leave your creative focus alone.
> 
> anyway thank you all for reading i really appreciate the kudos n' comments left!!!


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